


Baby Mickey Meets Baby Ian

by kiera81487



Series: No Man Stands a Chance Against First Glance Romance [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Drama, Fluff and Humor, GW2017A, Love, M/M, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 02:17:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11071977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiera81487/pseuds/kiera81487
Summary: Let's just say Mickey sees Ian first, a long, loooong time ago.





	Baby Mickey Meets Baby Ian

**Author's Note:**

> I felt inspired to run wild and talked myself into this series, all within thirty seconds of seeing that the theme for Day 6 of Gallavich Week 2017 is "alternate first meetings". I am just an unrepentant sucker for Ian/Mickey fics that diverge from canon gospel.

Walking into the South Side Chicago public clinic where women and children in need receive medical care, your first instinct is to almost reverse through the door and onto the bus that dropped you here. The chaos meets you at the threshold, then somehow  _sticks_ _to you_  the entirety of your time there. Now, for seasoned pros, such as yourself, the chaos never leaves. No, it simply _bleeds_ into the reality of what you have to expect each and every time you require OB/GYN care or your babies need check-ups, for as many years as those routines have to be sustained. It's how girls like you make do.

So, you shake it off and walk with purpose, managing to lift and shift the bulky, beat-up car seat through endless sardine-packed rows of mostly pregnant women and little kids running wild in a confined space even more cramped by infant strollers and other contraptions. You keep your third eye on your older boys to make sure they’re right behind you, your littlest son awkwardly carried in one of their arms. You make it to the front desk. You give your clinic card to the bitch that’s always working there, wasting no time on pleasantries. She actually lives near you, but, ironically, this shitty city job gives her insurance that allows her to avoid being a clinic patient; and that is enough for her to look down on you and your welfare. Once you're checked in, scope out a tight corner of chairs to stuff your tribe into and begin the suffering wait for your name to be called–usually a good two hours after whatever time your appointment says.

Letting out a sigh once you rest the car seat at your feet, you loosen the blanket around your baby girl then go through the motion of collecting jackets from everyone else to pile beside you. More relaxed, you take Mickey from his brother and kiss the toddler’s pale cheek for being such a good boy. With this many kids under your belt, especially with many of them in close succession of one another, you have maneuvered these errands trips endless times with kids of varying personality limitations, but your Mickey has been a soldier from birth, it seems. He’s always studying his surroundings, either babbling and waddling on his bow-legs behind his rowdy older brothers, or staring unsure at Terry–if he's ever home–and now with the arrival of baby Mandy, staying close by you whenever she's in your arms. Occasional tantrum aside when you won't give him candy, he's your roll-with-the-punch kid.

Fixing Mickey more securely on your lap, you rummage through your bag for snacks and random dollar store play things you keep stowed in there because you're tired of Iggy losing shit you buy him on the bus; and if you have to confiscate from one, you better do it across the board.

That’s when you hear the shrill bark of a voice that can only mean this clinic visit just turned from unpleasant to unbearable.

“I demand to see a doctor, right now!”

Monica fucking Gallagher. You roll your eyes and focus back on what you were doing, letting the madness play out in your background. The public clinic is where drama thrives.

“My baby has rights and you bureaucratic _butt-plugs_ are denying him the constitutional-”

“Mrs. Gallagher, please stop yelling,” Front Desk Bitch tells the wild blonde, with _I give zero_ _fucks_ written all over her face. “I told you that since you was forty minutes _late_ for your appointment, you will have to wait until the doctor finishes with her current patient. Was I not clear?” she rolls her neck.

“Oh, you people have some-”

“Who the _fuck_ you calling ‘you people’?!”

A supervisor intervenes, sensing the situation could escalate into a call for security, and quietly orders Monica to have a seat, pointing somewhere by you. Fuck you very much. You shake your head and check on Mandy while Monica fumbles and fiddles with a now wailing baby in her arms, moving from the main counter. Her little daughter looks stressed and embarrassed, but securely carries her busybody toddler brother, following her fuming mother.

“My little Ian, it’s okay. No more tears! Mommy’s gonna make it all better. Right, Fiona? Doesn’t Mommy always take care of you guys?”

The little girl looks up silently at Monica and even a few seats away you can see there're too many thoughts jumping behind her eyes; too serious and careful for such a young kid. The nod she gives is so shallow you almost miss it, like she’s just trying to keep the world on its axis for now, and it’s enough to placate her unfocused mother. The baby– _Ian_ , she said?–however is crying in surround sound now, blanket falling out of its tuck to reveal a tomato red face, empty gums, and wisps of orangey looking hair.

Mickey mumbles “Baby” up at you, chubby arm braced near your neck as he stands in your lap, peeking at the angry infant and sipping his juice box. “Yes, baby,” you whisper to him. As a reflex you rock Mandy’s car seat with your foot hoping to keep her sleeping through this shit storm that managed to land next to you.  

“Mom, I think he’s hungry. Did you bring his bottle?” little Fiona whispers.

“Oh… I um… I was tryna nurse him earlier but guess he's not into the boob. Umm, go up front and see if they have anything. They should have formula back there for the care bags they give newborns.” Her daughter, again hesitant and unsure as ever, walks back to the scene of her mother’s previous explosion, toddler brother still hugged to her body.

“It’s our tax money paying for this shit anyway!” she shouts after the little girl, voice momentarily drowning out the hungry hollering of baby Ian. You cringe, less for Monica’s attitude, but more for the unimaginable thought of how her kids could be so neglected in her presence. You’re no stranger to rough living. It’s in your neighborhood, your home, your relationships, your heart, your mind… but your babies? You draw your line there. As long as you’re alive, your babies will be cared for.

Not surprisingly, Fiona returns as quickly as she left, no formula in hand. You feel Monica grow increasingly more panicked, second by second, as Ian’s cries grow as desperate as a young infant’s can. You don’t know if it’s from a place of pity, or your desire to stop this agitating experience, or if maybe having a baby around the same age makes you more vulnerable to newborn needs, but you stand Mickey on the floor, letting him steady himself with your knee, and reach into your baby bag for one of the extra bottles you pumped for Mandy this morning. Giving it a good shake, you pop the cap and wordlessly pass the bottle over to Monica, making only hard eye contact; but she looks at you as if seeing you for the first time. Irritated by her lack of maternal ability to balance the squirming baby while taking the bottle from you, you easily take Ian from her, rest him and his mess of blankets in the crook of your arm, then push the bottle in his mouth. His relief is almost palpable, using practically his entire scrawny body to wrench each suck of your milk from the bottle. You grin at him, same as you do when feeding all your babies, patiently keeping the bottle angled in his mouth. He stares at you with big greenish, maybe hazel, eyes, content in his milk-full world.

Ever the spectator, your Mickey’s blue eyes train on the baby’s face, from his post at your knee. He’s usually this close when you feed Mandy, intent on just sharing the space without much participation. Ian’s hand brushes your leg as he feeds, catching Mickey’s attention. You watch him experimentally touch his little hand to Ian’s tiny fingers without deliberation. You beam at your sweet boy, then chuckle when he earnestly looks at Ian and babbles in his choppy, tiny voice: “Baby, eating.”

“That’s right; he’s a hungry boy. Ian, that’s Mickey holding your hand; Mickey, say ‘hi, Ian’.”

“Hi Eeee,” is as much as he manages. Your smile radiates brighter.

Mickey remains enthralled by the little bundle of Ian and doesn’t let go of his hand until you hand him back to Monica all burped and ready to sleep, promising to make for an interesting doctor’s appointment. You ignore any attempts she makes to engage you in conversation because she's a mess and you've got your own shit to cope with. Instead, you settle in for the long-ass wait by slipping in and out of conversations with your older boys about shit you’ll never buy them, and what you should make for dinner, and how Jamie _really_ managed to get detention.

Mickey stays cuddled to you, but his head tilts to the right keeping vigil of baby Ian until the nurse calls ‘Gallagher’ and Monica and family leave the waiting area. No longer distracted, you feel his small body still, signaling he’s probably gonna drift off for a nap, then, just as his eyes shut you swear you hear him mumble “My baby”.

 


End file.
